


where does this go

by torch song (atismere)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Break Up, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-24
Updated: 2013-08-24
Packaged: 2017-12-24 11:23:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/939403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atismere/pseuds/torch%20song
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All things must end. Everything has its time. It is just odd to think that time for them has come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	where does this go

It is not the past that intimidates her, or wakes her in the early morning with her clothing wet with a cold sweat and her sheets clinging to her limbs. Nor is it the present. Neither, she finds, are much to fear. Both are understandable, straight-forward threats upon the psyche with a straight-forward response. It is calculated, controlled. Easy, she might say if she were to explain it. Harmless.

It is, of course, the future that frightens her. That she is woken from nightmares of, her heart racing in her chest, her breathing short and fast as the darkness of night pushes in on every side. The looming future, the inescapable future. It is impossible to leave or to hide from, no matter how diligently one hides or how far one runs; she knows this as well as she knows herself, as she has run and hid from the responsibilities and burden of the future too many times for her to count. It is the one thing that it is truly inescapable. What will happen will happen- such a frightening phrase. Such a condemning, scapegoat of a phrase.

She sits on the edge of the moldy couch, her fingers gripping her knees so tightly that her knuckles are white from the force. Her left leg bounces with each frantic beat of her heart, jiggling and dancing with a case of nerves that will never ease. Her stomach knots with anxiety, her jaw clenches. She stares straight ahead of her into a vastness of empty space; she dare not look away from this piece of air for fear of what she will find, what her eyes will be met with. 

The man appears in the entrance of the shabby kitchen holding a dirty mug in each hand. The sharp, bitter scent wafts throughout the room, a usually comforting smell that offers her no sense of comfort now. He smiles a small smile at her and extends a hand, proffering a smudged mug. "Coffee?"

She shakes her head mechanically as her stomach gives a lurch, another wave of nervous nausea spreading through her. The man shrugs his shoulders and crosses the room in large, gangly steps, setting her mug on the mess that is a coffee table. He stands on the other side of the small table, holding his mug in both hands. His smile widens, a spectacle on his unshaven face. "I'm glad you came," he tells her.

She nods, her fingers flexing against her kneecaps. "So-" she begins to say but her voice is too hoarse, the word comes out as a rasp of a syllable rather than a word. She clears her throat, glances down quickly at her lap and then looks back at the man, who is smiling benignly at her. "So am I," she repeats, clearer now.

He perches on the arm of an old armchair, his eyes not leaving her. There is a pause, a horribly tense pause. She cannot seem to look away from him, the indescribable pull that has always been present between him and her as strong as it always has been. It adds to the anxiety that she already feels, a new bundle of worries and hopes that she does not want, that she wants to be rid of. She is very tired of their little push and pull game, it is no longer fun. He breaks the silence with a small cough that makes her start in surprise. "It's different this time, isn't it?" he asks quietly, his tone at odds with the loudness of the cluttered room. 

Lacking any words or sentiments she may offer him, she nods, looking back at her lap. She hears him sigh and the rustle of denim against upholstery, then the heavy slurp as he drinks his coffee. These are noises familiar to her, as familiar as the smell of the hot coffee that still lingers. They are unsettling and upsetting; they are things of the past, not of the future, not of the present. She needs to go but she wants - on some horribly sick level - to stay.

"We can't keep doing this, Mira," she hears him mutter. She looks up at him and finds that he is frowning at her, all signs of mirth and youth gone from his age. He now looks very old and very tired. She wonders, vaguely, if she looks as old and tired as he does. It has been, after all, an incredibly long game and a fruitless one at that. 

She shakes her head. "No," she replies quietly. "I know."

"It's now, or never," he says. It is not the same as an invitation or a plea; it is not him begging her to choose him, to say that she wants this life for as long as they both draw breath. She knows this. She knows it is not that simple or that complicated. It is a statement. A fact. She may end this now, or she may choose to never end it, to accept this life of clutter and dirty coffee mugs. 

The choice is frightening. The choice is the future. The choice will appear a hundred times in her nightmares and in her dreams, haunting both her waking self and sleeping fantasies. Her heart beats quicker; her fingers tighten around her knees. She does not want this choice, she wants to run - but won't it always follow her. Won't it sleep at the foot of her bed, at the bottom of her door?

"I'm sorry," she tells him, her fear and guilt and anxiety choking her so the response is tight and short. "I'm sorry."

He sighs again and takes another slurp of coffee. He does not say another word for a very long time. She takes this as a dismissal and gathers her bag and shoes, straightening the collar of her jacket. The handle of the door is greasy beneath her fingers but it does not stop her from twisting it like a knife, easing her way out of the dingy flat.


End file.
